


A Penny for your Thoughts

by Current_King_of_England



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Drug Use, Eventual Johnlock, F/M, Friends to Lovers, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Mary has a drinking problem, Mycroft IS the British Government, Original Character - Freeform, POV Multiple, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Post TAB, Ratings may change, Slow Burn, WHERE IS MORIARTY, Watsons Daughter, angsty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-27 01:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6263599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Current_King_of_England/pseuds/Current_King_of_England
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John whipped around, the blood draining from his face as the barbed words punctured him. When he finally spoke, his voice was pitched low and laden with steel. <br/>"If poison your body with another cocktail of opiates and prescription pills we are done. Finished. You will become a stranger to me. I will not speak a single word to you, I swear it."<br/>A mocking smirk slithered on Sherlock’s' face, and he drawled lazily, <br/>"You have the willpower of a child, John. You're threat is therefore pointless and boring. You could not go a week without contacting me." <br/>John rocked back on his heels, a distorted smile twisting his face as he said quietly,<br/>"You forget, Sherlock. I had two years of practice." </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock is facing a long and tedious road to recovery after his substantial overdose... and his relapse isn't the only secret hidden within the lives of his friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inside the mind of the youngest member of Baker Street

By the time Penny was 4 years old she knew lots of things. She knew how to spell her full name P-e-n-e-l-o-p-e S-c-o-t-t W-a-t-s-o-n and that Papa’s jumpers were the warmest things in the world and that Mommy had nice smelling perfume and that Mycroft only let her call him Queen Elizabeth when he was in a VERY good mood and that Sherlock had fun microscopes that she was only allowed to touch when she sat on his lap and Ms. Hudson had the tastiest biscuits in all of London. She told Sherlock everything that she knew because he said it was for her deduction skills, and if she kept this up she would ‘be the best goldfish in the sea’ which made her very proud.   
But Penny had things that she kept hidden in a little box in her head that were her best secrets and nobody could know. She saw that Sherlock looked at Papa the way her best friend Lila looked at Charlie when she thought he wasn’t looking and that Mommy had golden syrup out of a bottle when she was sad and when Papa and Mommy yelled and screamed and shook the house with their angry words she wanted to run and run for hours until she got to 221B Baker Street where Sherlock would play her favourite songs on the violin and Ms. Hudson would make her hot chocolate and she could be wrapped in a blanket and everything would be okay.   
But all these things that she observed were never allowed to slip out or it would go all quiet and people would stare like when Sherlock said mean things. He didn’t have a very good lock on his inside head box but that was okay because usually Papa was there and would make an angry face and Sherlock would apologize.  
There was one thing that Penny didn’t know though, and that was why Papa never let her climb trees or the climbing park or go out on the balcony. She never asked, because she was scared it was something she should keep in her inside head box but one day after her and Papa had gone to the park and she wasn’t allowed to use the swings she asked Molly who was over for tea why she couldn’t do fun things. Molly put on her sad face and tears were in her eyes and she got quiet for a long time and then whispered that a long time ago before Papa had met Mommy, Sherlock had gone onto a very high building and fell off and Papa thought he had gone away forever and that was why he didn’t like tall things.

4 years later, Penny found Papas' box of old newspaper scraps with headlines screaming, 'Suicide of a Fake Genius' and she learned the important difference between falling and jumping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Reader!  
> Thank you for reading my first work... Your kudos and comments mean the world to me :)  
> This Fic will be hopefully updates every Sunday, so please stay tuned


	2. Four years Earlier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Abominable Bride, and where our story begins

The ride back from the private landing strip was quiet; a tense atmosphere laden with emotion. They had offered to drive Sherlock home, given that he had thrown an icy, contemptuous glance that had instantly quieted Mycroft when he delicately suggested a trip to the hospital. Sherlock lay sprawled across the back seat, barely conscious; suffering from must have been a truly impressive withdrawal.

  
Resting her head against the glass window of the car, Mary created a list of scenarios; it was her way of coping and compartmentalizing. The first option included John spending a few nights at 221B helping Sherlock recover from his substantial overdose on a cocktail of drugs. This was the most predictable yet ~~most terrifying~~ least appealing course of action. The second was to enroll Sherlock in a rehab program, leave Mycroft to handle him and ~~have John all to herself~~ keep him in close proximity for the sake of their daughter.  
Mary concluded that these irrational stabs of emotion weren’t jealousy; no, she had experienced the twisting of dark fear and hatred in her stomach watching Sherlock deliver his best man speech. The tears in her husband’s eyes, the ~~absolutely sickening~~ unspoken love and adoration radiating off both of them.

No, this was a strategic course of action that would ensure the health and safety of both her baby and Sherlock.  
The car suddenly stopped, and it pulled Mary out of her train of thought. Glancing around, she noticed that they were parked in front of their flat. Her husband sat in the driver’s seat and stared straight ahead, face void of emotion as said,  
“This is you, love”  
The affectionate pronoun was spoken mechanically, as if tacked on as an afterthought. Mary sharply glanced over at him, but he refused to meet her eye.  
The weeks that had followed the incident at Magnussen’s penthouse ~~where she shot Sherlock~~ had been rocky; endless silences heavy with unanswered questions and simmering rage. John hadn’t had more than a monosyllabic conversation with her until they celebrated Christmas with Sherlock and his family, during which time he had delivered the murmured, shaky apology that melted the hard, icy lump of guilt embedded in Mary’s heart. They had patched up their broken marriage and ~~attempted to~~ put the past behind them, glossing over the rough patches that had graced their conversations on occasion.  
Now however, Mary felt a twinge of icy fear shoot down her spine as she stared at the back of her husband’s head, burning a hole into his skull. Grinding her teeth, she exhaled into the silence, trying to suppress the irrational emotions. Fucking pregnancy hormones.  
“Mary. Please.”  
John spoke quietly, yet she caught the underlying current of barely suppressed anger in his low voice. His jaw was clenched, muscles twitching against the faint stubble lining his cheeks. He looked exhausted and pale, with stress lines across his forehead and a faint tremor in the fingertips of his left hand.

Though she knew it was the fault of the near-comatose man in the back seat, Mary felt the slightest hint of pity for him, and it was enough to awkwardly propel herself out of the car, arms folded protectively around the rounded curve of her abdomen, containing her daughter. Her back ached as she stood up beside the car, and she had to cling on to the door while regaining feeling in her legs. “Only two more months,” she thought, staring down at her stomach, wondering if her unborn daughter could telepathically understand her thoughts.  
“You okay?”  
Mary glanced up, startled, at John, who was scrutinizing her from the driver’s seat, concern written over his face.  
“Yes! I’m sorry love, I was just catching my breath,” she replied, false cheeriness coating her voice, a smile plastered on her face. She closed the car door and hurried up the steps to the flat, turning once she was at the door to wave at the empty street. John had driven away without a second glance.

  
Once inside, Mary shed her jacket rapidly, and turned to face the hall mirror, and stared at herself; hatred and disgust rising in her throat like bile as she took in the humiliating sight of herself. Grotesquely protruding stomach, a layer of fat lining her breasts and hips, swollen ankles, and a grey tinge to her normally alabaster skin. As she closed her eyes, the mantra that she was chanting silently tattooed the back of her eyelids; fatweakuselessweakweakweakfatuselesswEAKWEAKUSELESS until it rose to an unbearable volume, pounding on the walls of her skull and splitting her head open. Fingers tangled in her hair, yanking until tears pricked her eyelids, Mary collapsed and a sob tore from her throat.

Deep breath.

Clenching her jaw against the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks, Mary pulled herself to her feet.  
“You promised him. You swore it. You cannot break your word,” Mary said forcefully into the mirror.

  
A face with black, soulless eyes and a demented, shark toothed smile slid across her vision, crooning in a sing-song voice,  
“Mary Mary, quite contrary…. Oh, sweetheart, you pinky promised me to staaaay with Johnny boy for ever and ever. Don’t you dare upset Daddy now.”  
She gasped, backing away from the mirror, away from the wide, fearful eyes staring back at her and paced around the flat, desperately blocking out the thoughts that threatened to drown her. She started on the chores, frantically sweeping, dusting and cleaning every inch of the living room, unconsciously pulled to the unlocked liquor cabinet in the far corner of the room. Once she found herself face to face with the exquisite aged liquor given to them as a gift from Mycroft, the dissonant orchestra of voices in her head rose in volume, screaming

  
Just one Only one NO THE BABY never again **PLEASE** just this one time NO STOP YOU CAN’T you are not allowed. Think _**REMEMBER JOHN**_ please. **Please do it now** no stop-

The first sip of the smooth amber liquid quieted the deafening hurricane inside her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my readers!  
> Updated every Sunday :)


	3. Finally Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning to at Baker Street (at last)

John drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as Mary crossed in front of the car, unsteadily making her way to the door of their flat. Concern still lingered in the frown lining his face; as she climbed out of her seat, Mary had turned ghostly pale and shakily gripped to door of the car, pain rippling across her features. The sudden panic that washed over John nearly propelled him out of the car, ready to wrap her in his arms.

But then her face shuttered closed, back to the expressionless mask she started wearing after ~~she fucking shot Sherlock~~ Sherlock’s incident at the Magnussen penthouse. He had been jolted back to reality, back to the marriage ~~barely~~ held together by the tiny, beating heart Mary carried inside her.

He could have driven to Baker Street right away, unceremoniously dumped the heavily drugged Sherlock on Mrs. Hudson, and ~~never fucking speak to the lying bastard again~~ leave Mycroft to care for him. Yet the mere thought of deserting Sherlock in that condition twisted the rusted knife of guilt that had taken permanent residence in his side after the marriage.

Sighing, John shifted the car into drive and pulled out into traffic. A low, cracked groan resonated from the back, and he glanced in the mirror at the pale, sickly man sprawled across the seats. Liquid fury clawed up the back of John’s throat as he glared at Sherlock, daring him to speak. Sherlock merely licked his cracked lips as his head lolled to one side; his eyes remained closed.

Minutes later, they rolled smoothly to a stop outside of Speedy's, and John slowly unbuckled his seatbelt, dreading what faced him. He walked around to the door of the back seat, leaned in and gently shook Sherlock awake. Blearily, the detective opened his eyes and looked around, clearly trying to gather his wits. John helped pull Sherlock to his feet, and wrapped a strong arm around Sherlock's waist he swayed dangerously on the spot. They limped to the front door, and John firmly rapped the knocker. Mrs. Hudson opened the door a moment later, and her anxious features filled with relief.

"John it's so nice to see you, love. It's been an awfully long time since you've stopped by. Well, never mind that now, let’s get Sherlock upstairs before he collapses on the carpet."

She spoke in the flighty, scatter- brained way of hers that filled Johns mind with memories of long nights in front of the fire interrupted with hot tea and warm biscuits. Yet her tone carried the undertone of steel that he remembered from when he first visited her after ~~that manipulative sociopath killed himself~~ Sherlock fell.

John formed a resemblance of a smile, and spoke with a practiced calmness.

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I am sorry for not visiting earlier; it's been a whirlwind these past months, you know, Mary and I preparing for the baby."

Her face lit up with a grin, as she fluttered,"Oh John! How many months along is she? When is the due date? Had you chosen a name? My goodness, time flies by!"

Swallowing the frustration mounting in him, John said shortly,“How about we talk later? I’ve got to take Sherlock upstairs.”

Mrs. Hudson instantly scurried back to her flat, glancing back once with fear and anxiety in her normally kind face. John inhaled once through his nose, tightened his grip around Sherlock’s waist, and staggered his way upstairs while Sherlock leaned on him heavily, eyes barely open.

John stopped abruptly in the doorway of 221B, causing Sherlock to grumble incoherently.

The flat.

His flat.

Their flat.

It was exactly the same. The thought hit him like a blow to his chest and stripped the air from his lungs. Slightly messier, and smelled strongly of chemicals and Sherlock, yet it was so painfully familiar that John had to lean heavily on the doorframe to catch his breath around that fucking knife impaled in his side. How long had it been since he had stepped foot in ~~his~~ ~~their~~ the flat? He hadn’t been inside since he found out ~~that~~ ~~his wife was a fucking lying assassin who shot his best friend~~ that Mary wasn’t the person he thought she was. God, he missed the place. The skull on the mantelpiece, the bullet-holed-smiley-faced wallpaper, the Cluedo board pinned to the wall with a knife. John felt a smile unwillingly pull at the corners of his mouth, and the muscles in his face felt tight from disuse.

“Are we going to stand here and admire the clearly familiar flat because you’ve gone and developed acute memory loss, or can we actually enter the premises?”

The voice was deep, and cracked with disuse, but it carried the sharp tone of frustration Sherlock usually reserved for Anderson. It startled John out of his nostalgia, and slammed him abruptly back into reality. Withdrawal from overdose. Right.

“Christ, calm down, Sherlock. I’ll get you lying down in a second,” John replied sharply, feeling his anger spark instantly. Sherlock, though speaking with his usual energy, was still leaning heavily on John, and the two of them awkwardly made their way over to the couch. Sherlock flopped down dramatically, still bundled in his thick wool coat, and instantly closed his eyes.

John, breathing slightly faster than normal in response to the physical exercise, stared down at the unresponsive man laid out in front of him, and tried to piece together some form of plan. First focus was getting Sherlock mildly comfortable; as it was, he was sprawled in full dress across the narrow couch, head buried in the cushions. John straightened his spine, and drew back his shoulders. Sherlock was not in any position to sit up, let alone change himself, which left John to the task. The prospect of undressing Sherlock sent a tendril of heat down his spine, which was immediately tamped down with practice ease. Not the time nor the place for that line of thought; he was married and expecting a child, for God sake.

John turned with military precision and marched down the hall to Sherlock’s room. Right outside the partially open door, he paused. He had only entered Sherlock’s room twice; after he was drugged by The Woman, and during an emergency circumstance; Sherlock had set off a small bomb in the kitchen. It felt like an invasion on Sherlock’s privacy, entering without permission.

John forced the doubt out of his head, and opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my readers! Apologies for the late update... I had a busy weekend, but I hope to be finished the next chapter by the upcoming Sunday.


	4. Returning to Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inside the mind of our Consulting Detective during the drive back to Baker Street

It didn't hurt yet.

No, Sherlock remained blissfully painless, striding towards the Watson’s automobile across the landing strip, mind still tangled in the complexity that was his mind palace. He solved it. The puzzle that Moriarty left behind, long after the last threads of his network had been severed and his body lay rotting under the unmarked tombstone. Sherlock smirked; of course the ~~drama queen~~ criminal mastermind would leave with a flourish. It seemed ridiculous now, to consider that Moriarty would die in the privacy of a barren rooftop, only Sherlock as his witness. No, this had been a man who wove lies laden with truth and broadcast them to the world; relentlessly fulfilling his promise to burn the heart out of Sherlock.

Yet he knew the peace wouldn’t last; the torturous pain would crawl up the base of his spine, his joints aching and muscles burning. His fingers would tear gashes in his flesh, trying to chase the bugs that would crawl and burrow under his skin. His brain would remain untouched the longest, but eventually the wave of agony would wrap itself around his mind.

Sherlock folded himself into the back seat of the car, ignoring the drone of voices echoing from the front seat. He had tuned in for 4.3 seconds, but the words exchanged unwillingly between the married couple were ~~unbearably tense~~ trivial. Sherlock closed his eyes, and was unexpectedly immersed in the memory of his relapse.

 

It had been 9 months ago, and the syringe of liquid happiness had infused his veins for the first time in years. That night, blinded by pain and soaked with sweat lying on his bed, Sherlock had desperately bargained with himself, trying to fight the desire to give in to a final dose.

The desire to eternally quiet the deadly voices corroding his brain.

The desire to finish what Moriarty started on the roof.

But he hadn't; not until the discordant clanging inside his skull had driven him insane, not until he was sinking into that suffocating blackness, not until it hit him that ~~John would never leave Mary~~ that things had had been altered forever.

Then he had stumbled from Baker Street, wrapped in tattered clothes and carrying the cash he had scavenged from the flat, and retraced the steps to find the dens that had housed him for years.

Weeks later, Lady Smallwood had called, and shakily uttered that hateful word- Magnussen. Suddenly Sherlock had a way to justify his relapse ~~for himself John~~ anybody who questioned his actions; a riveting case, at least an 8.6, a certainly interesting enough to create an elaborate disguise. John then had ~~unfortunately~~ unexpectedly visited the den, tight shoulders and clipped words reflecting the predictably tense times that had followed the ~~sex holiday~~ honeymoon bliss. He had been trying to find someone, but stumbled across Sherlock. His ~~disappointment~~ ~~rage~~ ~~sadness~~ response had not been reasonable, yet all that it took to regain his loyalty was Mycroft, poking his ever-lengthening nose in Sherlock’s ~~life~~ case.

After that, to quote the ever-eloquent John, it all went to shit.

Mary. What a fascinating enigma, Sherlock mused. A highly trained and emotionless assassin lurking just below the surface of the façade projecting a well-manicured wife, talented nurse, and charming friend.

A.G.R.A.

The words floated across the back of his closed lids; the shortest riddle he had yet to solve. He had read the file, obviously. Mycroft had it encrypted on his laptop, ready at his fingertips if John were to ever access it ~~because it is unacceptable how little he knows about his wife HE HAS TO KNOW~~

Yet it merely contained the list of her victims- nothing about her past employer, her name, or her date or location of birth. The list had been formidable; 117 hits within 3 years, and that was only counting-

The clunk of a car door momentarily roused him, and he blearily opened his eyes, groaning at the bright light that seared his retinas. They had stopped at the Watson residence, and Mary was inching her way in front of the car, arms wrapped around her center.

A glance to the front seat showed John with a ram-rod spine, tight jaw and shaking fingers. Bit not good. Sherlock closed his eyes again, and drifted away.

Moments later, John was helping him out of the car that was parked out front of Speedy’s. Sherlock brushed him off, feeling a faint annoyance shoot through him as he took a step forward. The pavement rushed up towards his eyes, and before he could catch his balance, John had wrapped his strong arms around Sherlock’s waist.

~~What is he doing he is too close he is too far away why does this feel~~

They made their way to the front door, both studiously ignoring the fact that this was a much more intimate form of contact than the handshake they had exchanged earlier.

John knocked on the door, and Mrs. Hudson opened it. Recently crying, the probable cause being Sherlock’s relapse…. How? Ah, texted by Mycroft; her phone lay in the pocket on her apron. Ate a lunch of stew and biscuits approximately 92 minutes ago; the smell of onions and beef was still detectable. Visited the closest Tesco’s by cab to retain groceries at 10:31am, judging by the wetness on her coat; it had rained between 10:15am and 11am. She was visiting her bridge club at 6:45pm for the weekly-

The sea of information threatened to drown him. And as Mrs. Hudson and John began exchanging polite comments, Sherlock closed his eyes, and focused on the warmth radiating from the hand still placed on his lower back. It was astounding, how much a simple point of pressure could ground him so instantly; anchoring him to the man standing beside him, radiating exhaustion and concern. His ~~only~~ closest friend and companion.

The hand gently applied pressure, guiding Sherlock towards the stairs that lead to ~~their~~ his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Updated every week :)


	5. Under the Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a rough night at 221B

Sherlock’s room was dark and had a faint smell of moth balls, as if rarely occupied. The bed was piled high with clothes, thick medical journals, and an array of unused flasks, beakers, and pipettes. On the wall was a framed diagram of the Periodic Table, and glancing around, John noted with a smirk that the wardrobe and drawers were placed slightly askew. John smirked, realizing that the angled placement of the furniture was one of the many small rebellions against Mycroft; Sherlock continuously scoffed at his meticulous neatness and organization.

John walked over to the drawers, opened them and searched for a pair of joggers and a t-shirt, desperately ignoring the intimacy of touching Sherlock’s clothes so freely. Upon finding what he was looking for, John beat a hasty retreat out of the bedroom, closing the door tightly behind him.

He found Sherlock passed out on the couch, breathing deeply and steadily. John shook him on the shoulder, saying,

“Sherlock, mate, you’ve got to get up. I can’t leave you like this in your suit and dress shirt. You’ll never speak to me again if you ruin your clothes.”

Sherlock groaned, and grappled himself into a sitting position, slumping over on his knees. He spoke in his low, slightly raspy baritone.

“I am perfectly capable of changing myself. This is not the first time my drug intake exceeded the limit of my useless body.”

John winced at the harshness of the phrasing, and passed the clothes to Sherlock, stiffly saying, “I grabbed whatever I could find. I am here to aid you if you need assistance getting them on.”

Jesus, John thought. I’m starting to sound like Mycroft.

Sherlock wordlessly shot him a look of contempt, and started to fumble with the buttons of his jacket. His fingers were shaking uncontrollably. John watched with his brow furrowed as a stormy expression twisted the detective’s face.

“Here. We’ll be up all night if you do this yourself.” John knelt before Sherlock and covered his pale hands with his own, drawing them away from his coat ~~as a spark shot through his fingertips upon contact with~~

John flicked the buttons open rapidly, revealing the suit jacket and white shirt underneath ~~with that one fucking button open~~ as he gently slid the thick, gray coat off Sherlock’s shoulders. Next came the jacket, and John stilled as he looked at Sherlock. Truly looked at him, through the eyes of a trained doctor. God, he was thin. John’s gaze traveled over the sharp outline of Sherlock’s ribs under the collared shirt, and a felt a dull pain rise in him. The detective was starving himself without ~~John~~ someone monitoring his meal consumption. John’s eyes slowly made their way over the sharp collarbones, up the pale, sinewy neck to rest on Sherlock’s face, afraid of what he would see, no longer clouded blinded by anger.

He met Sherlock’s gaze for the first time in what felt like a year, and all the air was punched out of him. John felt blinded, stripped naked by the raw emotion written across the ~~beautiful~~ face. Sherlock hadn’t been expecting John to look up, and had been staring down at John with such an open expression it felt like a blow to the head. Sherlock hadn’t looked at John with such a human expression since the weddi- no. No, that had been fleeting, a mere flicker of warmth across the stone features. This was- something else altogether. The steely, yet ever-changing eyes were that shade of blue. That exact shade. The startling, crystal blue that had stared open yet unseeing in that broken, bloody head lying on the stained pavement. John felt bile rise in his throat and turned away.

“I-em- well- Sher- I mean-“ _Keep it together, Watson “_ I- I’m going to shower. Do I still have clothes in the flat?”

Sherlock nodded weakly, slumping over on his side until his head was propped up by the armrest. John haphazardly threw a blanket over top of the curled up figure still wearing the half-buttoned white shirt and dress pants, and walked out of the room. The comfortable clothing chosen so carefully lay abandoned on the coffee table.

The shower loosened his stiff, tense muscles and slowed his racing thoughts. John mechanically slipped on a tattered t-shirt and old boxers, feeling exhaustion overwhelm him. Crawling into bed, he fell asleep instantly.

It jarred him awake, causing him to bolt upright, heart pounding. A choked cry of pain, followed by gut-wrenching sobs. His blood ran cold he listened, not daring to breathe. It was the first time he had ever heard Sherlock cry. Actually cry, not through the mask of a disguise and _god_ it hurt. He wanted to block his ears to shut it out, erasing the agony of the sound.

John scrambled to his feet and raced to the living room, finding the detective laying on the couch, blanket tangled around his long frame. He was writhing and thrashing his limbs, face contorted, trying to free himself from the straight jacket of bedding. Covered in sweat and sobbing uncontrollably, Sherlock flexed against the restraints, the veins at his neck standing out against the taught muscle. His hair was matted and plastered against his forehead, making him look young and helpless. John rushed over to the couch and knelt beside him.

“Sherlock it’s me, John. I’m right here, just let me help you.”

The movement slowed.

“Mycroft?”

The name was spoken softly, achingly sweet as Sherlock gazed emploringly at John, tears still running down his pale cheeks. John felt his heart twist painfully as Sherlock wrapped his cold, clammy fingers around his wrist and he looked down into the glazed, unfocused eyes. Sherlock was hallucinating, a common side effect of heroin withdrawal. His pulse was elevated, and he shook uncontrollably. The evidence was clearly before him, yet John was unable to respond.

“Myc? Is that you? Mycie you need to help me. They’ve tied me up again and locked me in the pillow room with no windows and darkness and nightmares you haVE TO HELP ME GET OUT-”

Sherlock was yelling, panic taking over his features as he thrashed, desperately trying to free himself.

John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s wrists, restraining the movement of the trembling fingers clawing at the blanket.

“HELP ME GET ME OUT NOW-”

“Sherlock, please I am trying to help you, stop struggling-”

“THEY’VE GOT ME AGAIN THEY FOUND MY HIDING SPOT-”

John felt a sob build in his throat and choked out a jumble of apologies and reassurances.

“I-I’m sorry you’re safe Sherlock p-please stop f-for me.”

Finally, the bedding was free and Sherlock collapsed, bloodshot eyes blinking heavily in a face slick with tears and sweat. Shakily getting to his feet, John retrieved a basin of cool water and a flannel from the kitchen, pulled up a chair, and gently sponged away the grief and pain from the ravaged face. Sherlock eventually dozed off, occasionally whimpering and twitching erratically in pain.

John fell asleep hours later to dreams filled with scared little boys playing with broken toys and crying out for their big brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the angst... it will cheer up *ahem* eventually   
> Thank you for the support!  
> Updated every week :)


	6. Locked Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a rough night within Sherlock's Mind Palace

Darkness.

A suffocating blackness that overwhelmed Sherlock, waves of pain pounding again and again over his body. He vaguely heard a person crying, annoying, loud sobs and wished that they would shut up and just let him _think._

God, it hurt.

The aching in his skull, rippling down his spine and reaching out through every nerve ending in his body, his joints stiff and muscles protesting every time he moved his head.

On the edges of his consciousness, Sherlock gradually pieced together that he was lying on a flat, padded surface, though where and why he was there were mysteries he could not bother to solve.

Blinking his eyes open, Sherlock frowned as he tried to visualize his surroundings. Even with the darkness of both his mind and the room threatening to overwhelm him, he knew that it was an oddly familiar setting, judging by the air temperature and faint murmur of noise from an outside source.

Sherlock sat up and froze, heart pounding violently. They got him. They finally caught up to him, after years and years of disguises and rehabilitation they locked him up again in that room, with the filthy, grimy padded walls and the low ceiling and the jacket. God, they wrapped him up again, so tight it cut off the circulation to his shaking fingertips and restricted his movements to nothing.

Panic overtook Sherlock, the surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins, giving him the energy to strain against the binds, muscles aching with the effort. He had to get out, leave the locked room that was pressing down on him, choking him. A cry of anguish ripped from his throat, tears springing into his eyes and beads of sweat running down his face. He couldn’t leave, he was a prisoner in his own private cell but Mycroft promised him, swore to him that he would never have to go back to the quiet halls and silent nurses and that ring of keys always on Doctor K-

Hands abruptly touched him, grabbing at his wrists and restraining him further no, _no_ not again, please, not back to the room I’ll be good now, I promise, Sherlock thought pleadingly. DOCTOR! Let me go now, I swear, I will get better-

But the hands were warm and gentle, with slightly calloused palms, so different from the cold, clammy fingers of the man with the cold eyes and empty smile who winked every time Sherlock had been dragged away for conditioning.

He slowed his thrashing, a flicker of hope rising in his chest, easing some of the fear.

“Mycroft?” The name rasped out, broken from the soreness of Sherlock’s throat.

An unfamiliar voice spoke in return, and Sherlock realized that the hands holding his wrists were too calloused, too rough to be the palms of his brother, and panic threatened to overtake him once more.

“Myc? Is that you? Mycie you need to help me. They’ve tied me up again and locked me in the teensy room with no windows and darkness and nightmares you haVE TO HELP ME GET OUT-”

He had to free himself, get far away from this man, this unknown stranger who was trying to restrain him, surely attempting to get him back in the conditioning room for more treatment and he was strong, stronger than Sherlock and it was obvious he was trying to hurt him, make him feel the punishment for relapsing and **finally** he was free at last-

The stranger removed his hands; an odd move for one obviously intent on harming Sherlock. And now he was moving away, steps growing fainter. A muffled clatter. A cool, wet fabric made contact with Sherlock’s forehead, causing him to tense abruptly, and then relax.

His eyelids gradually grew heavy, and Sherlock fell asleep.

 

Groaning, Sherlock cracked his eyes open, squinting in the sharp daylight of the flat. His neck was stiff from sleeping on a strange angle… why on earth was he on the couch? He sat up abruptly, ignoring the spikes of pain drilling into his skull. Scanning the room, he rapidly pieced together the events of the previous night. In the process of his impressive withdrawal, his transport hadn’t been unable to move, much less walk the ridiculously short distance to his bedroom. Glancing down, Sherlock noted that he was dressed in his favorite white shirt and trousers, now ruined by the sweat that had emulated from his pores.

Frustration rose in him; John, his ~~friend~~ ~~flatmate~~ doctor and caregiver overlooked the obvious notion of changing him. A quiet snore located to his left made Sherlock start and glance over to the occupied chair full of said John Watson, sleeping peacefully.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, anger ebbing away as he stared at the slumped, dozing figure. John was wearing that old t-shirt that was stretched at the neck, offering Sherlock a glimpse of the spidery, whitened scar tissue that marked the tanned skin around the healed bullet wound. The doctor’s normally expressive face was free of tension, smoothed out by the calm that accompanied sleep. His ash colored hair was golden in the early light, bringing out faded red and brown tones washed away by age. ~~He was beautiful.~~

John jerked upright. blinked, cobalt eyes blearily focusing on Sherlock and smiled, saying, 

"Good morning, Sherlock."

Sherlock swallowed, thoughts in utter disarray at the notion that he had been caught staring. Pulling himself together sharply, he replied in a crisp, business-like tone, saying,

"Good morning, John. I thank you for your assistance last evening. you are now free to return to your frankly trivial life, free of any attachment to myself."

John's face darkened, eyes turning a dangerous shade of blue. he rose, and advanced on Sherlock, left fist clenched.

"Excuse me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update, I had a busy weekend.  
> Thank you to all my readers!


	7. A.G.R.A

She knelt on the cold, unforgiving tile, carefully maneuvering around her swollen tummy. Leaning over the porcelain bowl, she strategically pushed her index and middle finger down her throat, heaving convulsively once she hit her gag reflex. The liquid burned as it crawled up her throat; a repulsive sludge of undigested food, bile, and alcohol. Again and again Mary gagged, cleansing herself of the scotch that would have ruined her child's brain irreversibly.

Satisfied, Mary methodically stood up, poured Javex into the bowl, flushed, and rinsed her mouth with Spearmint Mouthwash.

She splashed her pale, clammy face, dried it with the worn towel and gently lined her lips with her dark red lipstick. Feeling refreshed and filled with renwed strength, she closed the door of the washroom tightly behind her, and marched to the kitchen, intent on making dinner. Knowing that John would still be at Sherlock's flat, she chose to bake a steak-and-kidney pie; her favourite meal, and the only one her husband refused to eat.

Mary rummaged around the fridge and cupboards, eventually gathering each ingredient and laying them out over the counter top. She set to work rolling out the pastry.

God, she was stupid. To fall back into her old habit so easily, and only from the fucking hormones that accompanied pregnancy. She understood, of course, that Moriarty's video was the trigger to the overwhelming internal conflict.

The video that had overridden every single security encryption across the country.

The video, Mary knew, was created just for her.

 

 

She first met Jim nearly 9 years after her employment into the CIA. Trained to kill, she was conditioned to emotionlessly and effortlessly pull the trigger on command. Mary had risen through the ranks as a result of her skill, accuracy, and ability to adapt seamlessly into any role presented to her.

Yet it was never enough. The momentary surge of adrenalin she felt as she unlocked the safety was a mere flash of satisfaction, and she was always left wanting, usually finding relief in the bottom of a cheap bottle of wine.

Jim Moriarty.

The words, even now, sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine. His name had been taboo around the intelligence organization; merely whispered in the lower ranks, and spoken seriously behind the closed doors of the Officials. He was the perfect criminal; feared by government agencies across the globe, and yet always out of reach, like a spider dangling his tantalizing prey.

He had slid into Mary's life as only a brilliant madman can; oozing charm and promises, courting her with roses and the promise of danger. She fell for him, with his pointed smile lilting Irish tone, and eventually started accepting the underhand missions he offered her.

In the field, however, she followed each order commanded in the nasal tone of her mission director, hating every moment. It was not late at night that she would pay visits to the victims of Jim Moriarty.

She was very careful. Never leaving a trace of herself; no footage, no tracking device, no facial recognition. Until that one night, where her GPS chip was tracked; she had forgotten to remove it from the sole of her right shoe. It had been an unusually stressful task from Jim; attend a gala at the Four Seasons, keep tabs on the host and his wife while maintaining the facade of a German ambassador.

She still blamed herself for what happened; she had been distracted by the attendance of a former agent, an older man who had retired in one of her first years at the agency. She has been in full disguise, but the shock of seeing a familiar face, one that would blow her cover, had sent her reeling. In her panic, she forgot to remove the heel that concealed the tracking chip.

Jim had been furious.

The raging, psychotic anger that sent everyone scurrying, fearful of his sickening smile and horrifying threats spoken in a crooning, sing-song drawl.

His moods flipped like a switch; one moment he was an angel, calling her poppet and promising her wealth and excitement and the next a deranged psychopath, intelligent enough to compromise the safety of each nation alphabetically.

And yet she still adored him.

Five years later, Jim had gotten bored with his scheme of world domination and uncovered the mystery of the Consulting Detective and his Doctor.

Mary didn't know why this obsession overtook Jim so completely, and occasionally felt stabs of jealousy towards the detective who had caught the attention of Jim so fully.

At the pool, Mary had found it hard not to pull the trigger aimed at the short, jumper-clad Doctor weighed down by Semtex.

The doctor she was assigned to track after Jim and Sherlock disappeared.

Mary felt a twisted smile cross her lips. If only she had known that this unknown Doctor was John Watson, the man with the gentle hands and soft voice and who managed to ensnare her heart so fully, even broken from Sherlock's death. The army doctor who treated her with such love and respect, and had brought normality and balance to her chaotic life.

The quiet ding of the oven pulled her out of her musings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my readers!  
> Updated every week :)


	8. Tension and tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chat the next morning is not a happy one

“ _Excuse_ me?!” John repeated, feeling an acidic, burning anger explode in his stomach. ~~The bastard~~ Sherlock sprawled across the couch, shirt rumpled and hair an utter mess, the frigid expression in his icy blue eyes countering his appearance. When he spoke, it was in a scornful, vindictive drawl.

“Do keep up John. you know how I despise repeating myself. I obviously thanked you for your assistance, and-“

John interrupted in a low, controlled voice, unable to hold back the anger rising like bile in his throat.  

"I know exactly what you said, Sherlock. I was giving you an opportunity to withdraw your statement, seeing as it crossed over the line over a bit not good." 

Sherlock sat up, eyes narrowing dangerously as he shot back,

"I was merely stating fact, yet that seems a bit above your level of understanding. Honestly, John, you often leave me wondering if you possess even a modicum of intelligence." 

John inhaled slowly, clenching his jaw against the biting remark that leaped to his tongue. Arguing with the git would only fuel his frustration. 

"Right. I'm going to shower. Hopefully you'll be less of a twat when I return, but I'm far from betting on it." 

And with that, he sharply turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

________

John moved around the kitchen, automatically reaching for the components for tea. He smiled sadly, realizing that he had reached for the sugar in the overflowing Petri dish he had insisted on using after the incident with the Chlorophyllum Fungus and brown sugar confusion. 

The kettle abruptly whistled, snapping John out of his nostalgia. He filled the chipped ceramic mugs with the boiling liquid, carefully setting them on the stained coffee table in the living room beside the immobile detective. He settled in ~~his~~ the red armchair, feeling refreshed after his lengthy shower. 

Sherlock sat immersed on his laptop, the backlight giving his pale features an ethereal ~~beautiful~~ quality. His long, ivory fingers gracefully swept over the keys, as elegantly as over the strings of the violin he coaxed such beautiful music out of. His dark hair was frizzy and untamed, framing his angular face and casting a shadow over his eyes. 

Sherlock abruptly glanced up as if sensing John’s thoughts, the familiar expression of being miles away clearing as he tilted his head in an unspoken question.

John sighed, setting his empty tea cup aside and sat up. He scrubbed a hand over his lined face and through his still damp hair, collecting himself for the inevitably uncomfortable conversation about to unfold. 

"Sherlock." John said quietly, and the pale eyes snapped to his; they had drifted back to the keyboard. 

"John."

"First off, I want to apologize for snapping at your earlier. You did nothing to deserve it." 

Sherlock frowned, confusion in his eyes as he opened his mouth to interrupt. John put up a finger to stop him.

"Please don't. I know that we've been, well, um- distanced for the past few months. It's just- you know- with Mary and the baby and" _get it together, John_ "Sherlock. I will stop, if that's what you want. I will leave you to the care of Mrs. Hudson, and your brother-"

Sherlock growled angrily. 

"-or whoever and we can, we can go our separate ways." 

"Good."

The frigid syllable hit John in the chest; an ice shard aimed directly at his heart. 

"P-pardon?"

Sherlock smiled, yet his eyes darkened in cold anger.

"Really John, you're hearing has rapidly decreased in the past 4 hours, and you know how trivial it is for me to repeat myself. I expressed my wish for you to leave for an indeterminable amount of time. I suggest you leave Baker Street now." 

Shaking from anger, John rose, jaw tight and left fingers twitching. Turning on his heel, he strode towards the door, wrenching his jacket off the hook. He clenched his fingers around the door handle, watching his knuckles grow white from the tension. With a voice breaking from barely suppressed rage, he spoke without turning to face the detective. 

"I need you to tell me one thing. When did you stick that fucking needle in your arm, Sherlock. I have to know."

Sherlock audibly rolled his eyes. 

"Get back to your wife, John. I've made it clear I do not need you to coddle me; I miraculously survived without you for nearly 30 years, and am quite capable of looking after myself now that you chose to engage in matrimony with that entirely honest, truthful woman." 

John whipped around, the blood draining from his face as the barbed words punctured him. When he finally spoke, his voice was pitched low and laden with steel. 

"If poison your body with another cocktail of opiates and prescription pills we are done. Finished. You will become a stranger to me. I will not speak a single word to you, I swear it."

A mocking smirk slithered on Sherlock’s' face, and he drawled lazily, 

"You have the willpower of a child, John. You're threat is therefore pointless and boring. You could not go a week without contacting me." 

John rocked back on his heels, a distorted smile twisting his face as he said quietly,

"You forget, Sherlock. I had two years of practice." 

And with that, John turned and marched out of the flat, slamming the door behind him. 

Out on the sidewalk, he jabbed a finger at the nearest security camera and said forcefully,

"You and I need to have a little chat." 

Minutes later, a black car slid to a halt on the sidewalk, and a cool voice murmured,

"Get in, Doctor Watson." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update!  
> Ive chosen to start my regular updates every Friday night out of convenience.  
> Sorry not sorry for the angst... there is quite a bit of it.


	9. Fathers and Sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Then you'll be a man, my son."  
> ~Kipling

28 years ago

Jim started at the knock on his door, nearly dropping the heavy novel he had been examining to the floor.

A heavy hand wrapped around the doorknob, and the door opened, revealing a tall, dark figure silhouetted by the dimmed light in the hall.

His father looked tired, his sharp blue eyes dulled and face lined from fatigue. His meticulously slicked back hair was falling loose of the binds the gel he liberally applied each morning, yet his dark grey suit remained pristine; spotless and perfectly ironed. His favourite tie, with miniature skulls dotting a black background, was perfectly knotted and slightly shifted to the left; both Jim and his father were dominant with their left hands.

This, along with the raven black hair Jim had inherited from his father. His inky, dark eyes, slight stature and pale complexion were his mother's traits.

This resulted in a sallow, thin boy of twelve with knobbly knees and bird-like delicacy who had a mess of black hair and round, dark eyes and rarely smiled. Jim was exceptionally intelligent, and was placed in an accelerated course of study at his father's request. He had very few friends; the boys at school found his lack of social interaction strange, and refused to talk to him.

Jim glanced up, and saw the angular, sharp face twisted in a mocking sneer as his father glanced around, taking in the heavy textbooks haphazardly tossed around the room, and the clothing piled in tedious stacks on the bed.

"Tsk tsk, James. You have been quite neglectful of your chores. Your mother has just told me that you've been holed up in this disaster since you got home from school," he said in a cool, lilting tone.

Jim bowed his head, swallowing the fear creeping up his throat and said,

"I-I am sorry, father. I will clean up right away."

His father smiled, the dead-eyed, emotionless smile that haunted Jim's nightmares and sent an icy finger trailing down his spine.

"Ah, but James, how do you expect to learn from your mistakes if you are not adequately punished," his father replied, and methodically unbuttoned his suit jacket, placing it carefully over the back of the desk chair. He rolled up his sleeves, one after the other, and unbuckled his belt in quick, efficient movements. Sliding the black leather belt from the loops on his trousers, he glanced back up at Jim, and said quietly,

"Kneel facing the wall, James."

The familiar command, spoken so many times that Jim automatically turned his back on his nightmare and sank to his knees on the hard wooden floor.

Jim listened to the rustle of his father wrapping the belt around his hand and-

**_Thwack_ **

The thick leather carved a line of pain across his thin shoulder blades, and he hissed in pain through his teeth.

 ** _Thwack_**  

This was a brutal, savage strike and he struggled not to cry out.

"You-" **_thwack_** "will-" **_thwack_**  "not-"  _ **thwack**_ "disappoint me again-" **_thwack thwack thwack_**

Jim felt hot tears of shame trickle down his face as the fiery heat of pain radiated across his back. His father knotted his fingers through his hair and yanked, and Jim cried out, agony overwhelming him. A low, cold voice resonated in his ear.

"You are a useless, selfish brat who doesn't deserve the loving home we have provided. You will not disobey me again. Do you understand?"

Jim nodded, unable to speak.

"Clean up this filthy room. I need you seated at our dining table in 4 minutes," his father said brusquely, standing up and gathering his suit jacket.

The door clicked quietly shut.

Jim struggled to his feet, wincing as pain shot through his limbs. He staggered across the small space and to his bathroom. Once inside, he flicked on the light, illuminating the enclosed space with its spotless sink and toilet, and the flowered shower curtain.

Jim leaned heavily on the sink, raising his head and staring into the mirror.

His eyes looked red, tinted with the remains of tears and circled in a bruised purple from sleep deprivation. His pale,sallow face was pinched, mouth twisted in a slight grimace.

Jim reached up to brush his fringe off his clammy forehead and abruptly groaned, momentarily having forgot the injuries inflicted from his father. He reached up, loosening his school tie and unbuttoning his shirt to revel his skinny chest and the pale skin drawn tightly over his ribcage.

Tugging off the shirt and his worn vest, Jim turned around, clinically inspecting the thick red gashes angrily slashed across his back, dotted with blood and already darkening with bruises. He grabbed a small flannel from a nearby stack of towels, ran it under warm water, and gently sponged away the stains of crimson across the pale canvass of his skin.

Jim carefully pulled the vest over his head, buttoned up his shirt, and carefully knotted his tie, checking the watch dangling on his thin wrist. 3 minutes and 54 seconds had passed, and Jim felt a small smirk tug on the edges of his mouth. He had increased his efficiency by 9 seconds from the last Incident.

He strode out of the small lavatory and back into his bedroom, and paused, surveying the disaster. After a second to process, Jim jumped into action, meticulously organizing. Textbooks stacked on the polished wooden desk, clothes either hung neatly in the closet or disposed in the basket at the end of his bed, drawers shut tightly, and the small bedside table rearranged. His room was small, and Jim normally kept it spotless, but he had been quite neglectful; The Encyclopaedia of Rare Poisons and Carcinogens had recently been delivered to the library, and Jim had spent blissful hours studying the contents.

Fondly laying the textbook on his pillow, Jim glanced at his watch again, noted he had merely 14 seconds to get to the dining table, and hurried out of the room, latching the door behind him.

He raced down the narrow hall and tiptoed down the stairs; his father hated unnecessary racket.

Jim skidded to a halt just outside the kitchen, freezing as he saw the scene before him. His mother was pressed against the counter, crowded by his father's tall frame. He had his head tilted close to hers, and his arms wrapped around her waist. To an innocent onlooker, it appeared as a husband and wife enjoying a loving embrace, yet Jim felt bile rise in his throat when he observed their position. His father's arms, instead of loosely holding his wife, had become a tight prison around her. He was leaning close to her ear, but it was not for a murmur of love; she flinched away as he spoke, and Jim noticed her fingers trembling as they rested on the counter.

Jim cleared his throat, studiously ignoring his father as he marched passed them.

Once seated at the dinner table, his mother came in, laden with food and head bowed.

Jim stared at her, feeling a helpless rage overwhelm him as he took in her red eyes, pale complexion, and the purple bruise lightly shadowing her cheekbone.

Something had to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been away for the weekend, and unable to update on the Friday.  
> Next week will get back to normal!


	10. Confessions over Scotch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and John have their rather tense meeting.

 “Sir?” A quiet voice from the door roused Mycroft from his musings. Anthea, his lovely assistant stood just inside his office, blackberry in hand and wearing a guarded expression.

“What is it, my dear? It is my foolish desire for you to bestow upon me words of comfort, yet I do not believe you enter this room on a peace mission.”

Anthea smiled slightly, walked over to his desk, and wordlessly pulled his laptop towards her. Mycroft felt a hint of affection towards her; when she had initially acquired her positon, she had been tentative to speak to him, let alone schedule events without his permission. Now, she was the reason the office functioned as a well-oiled machine.

The smooth baritone of his younger brother resonated from the small speaker, drawing Mycroft’s attention back to the matter at hand. With mounting frustration, he listened to the painful interaction between Sherlock and Doctor Watson; the contrast between the gentle, almost _caring_ atmosphere of their night to the cold, detached rage of the morning was faintly nauseating.

 Doctor Watson stormed out, back turned on the broken, defeated expression that momentarily flickered over Sherlock’s face. The screen turned back, and then choppily cut to one of the surveillance cameras operating around Baker Street. John stormed out of the flat, turned sharply on his heel and stared directly at the camera, jabbing a finger angrily demanded a meeting.

Mycroft stood up abruptly, buttoned his suit jacket, and strode out the door, beckoning Anthea to follow him with a flick of his fingers. In the vast lobby of his building, he quickly discussed the matters of canceling the afternoon events with his secretary, and marched out the door, customary umbrella in hand. Once seated in the nondescript company car, he steepled his fingers under his chin, and composed the apology letter to the Turkish Ambassador, with whom he would be cancelling the 4pm appointment.

As they rolled to a stop on Baker Street, Mycroft glanced up and saw the tense form of Doctor Watson pacing back and forth across the sidewalk, jacket buttoned to his chin, face a dark thundercloud. Mycroft reached over and opened the door, coolly inviting the army doctor into the vehicle.

The drive to the office was a tense affair. Nothing past a clipped greeting was exchanged between the passengers, and the grinding of John’s teeth was audible. As they pulled up to the building, the doctor climbed out of the car, wordlessly striding over to the large oak doors, wrenching them open and marching across the lobby. Mycroft and Anthea followed, exchanging a terse glance as they entered the office.

John had seated himself- well, seated was an optimistic term-in the leather chair facing the desk. Mycroft enters to room, dismissing Anthea with a wave of his fingers; she fades into the hall, latching the door behind her.

With an inaudible sigh, Mycroft brushed past his desk and seats himself behind the beautiful mahogany desk. Glancing at the unmoving form across from him, he reaches for the tumbler of aged scotch placed on the edge of his desk, pouring the amber liquid in two crystal glasses and slides one over to the doctor.

John straightened, snatching the glass off the desk and tossing it down in one go. Mycroft cleared his throat, unsure how to proceed, but was cut off by the doctor.

“Mycroft. You don’t want me wasting your precious time, and I sure as shit don’t want to be seated here right now. I need a few from you, and then I’ll be out of here.”

Mycroft took a sip from his tumbler, and carefully placed it back on the leather coaster.

“Doctor Watson. In return for the information you seek, I ask that you remain loyal to the promise you made; protecting my foolish brother.”

John laughed, a short expulsion of incredulity and mirth and leaned forward across the desk.

“Oh, you can trust me to keep my promise. As it’s been made clear, I am the disposable, meaningless protector of a man entirely void of human emotions. Now that we’ve settled the painfully obvious, may I proceed?”

Mycroft smiled coldly, and gestured at the doctor.

“First things first; what the bloody hell is this Moriarty business, and why haven’t you, the entirety of the British fucking Government, taken care of it?”

Mycroft felt the barely concealed anger rise in his throat, and he said sharply,

“You cannot honestly believe that I have not invested my every waking hour into this whole ordeal, Doctor. I have instigated every possible means of protection for you and your family, and this is not a matter for you to worry your inadequate brain about.”

John smirked, clearly pleased to have received such an emphatic response from the Ice Man.

“Thank you, Mycroft, though your efforts are in vain, I do appreciate what you are doing. Next; what the ruddy hell was Sherlock going on about last night? Don’t try and play this one off, mate. I know you have surveillance around the flat; I saw the camera hidden behind The History of Tobacco last night.”

Mycroft frowned, not quite comprehending the question; what did he mean, what Sherlock was going on about-

Oh dear Lord.

Not that. Anything but that.

Swallowing against the anxiety creating steel bands around his windpipe, he spoke with a forced calm.

“That was nothing of concern, John. Sherlock was clearly raving in his withdrawal, and I wouldn’t trust a word he said last night if I were-”

“Don’t you dare FUCKING LIE TO ME, MYCROFT, YOU KNOW WHAT I CAN DO!”

John exploded from his chair, reddened face inches away from the man across from him as he yelled, finally having lost his patience.

Mycroft calmly gazed at him, knowing that responding with the equal amount of emotion would result in violence; as he stood up, the ex-soldier had involuntarily clenched his left hand into a fist. He was a dangerous man, underneath the unassuming, frankly hideous jumpers.

“Doctor, I beg you to take a seat. Your anger towards my refusal to respond honestly does you credit; it is a sign of your admirable loyalty. I will disclose the explanation towards the behavior of my brother, but I must warn you, it will increase your dislike for me exponentially.

John snorted, but reluctantly took a seat, crossing his arms and leaning against the back of the chair.

Mycroft steeled himself with a final sip of scotch, and began to speak in a cool, detached tone.

“Sherlock was, as you can imagine, an enduring but difficult child; he was endlessly curious, and had a knack for blurting out inappropriate deductions about peers and adults alike. He was friendless, but took comfort in the loving environment of our home and the nature of science. By the time he entered his teenage years, he was bullied relentlessly for his effortless brilliance and lack of social abilities.

He became a sullen, fierce young man, lashing out violently at anyone who crossed him. My parents took him to countless psychologists and therapists, and each one diagnosed him differently. At 12, he had been diagnosed for having Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, ADHD, ADD, PTSD, Asperger’s, severe Autism, Depression, Anxiety, and anger management issues. It had become his little game; he would observe the mannerisms of patients with the listed disorders and behave accordingly during his sessions.  He started smoking at 13, and ingested cocaine on his 16th birthday- he referred to it as the first experiment conducted on himself.”

John gripped the armrest tightly, but did not speak.

“At age 19, he had been enrolled in 6 different rehabilitation centers after overdosing on a plethora of opiates during three separate occasions. My parents had long since given up, and the responsibility of my brother had become my burden. I was in my last year of university and had recently acquired a minor government position when I discovered my brother was in the hospital yet again.  Doctor Watson, please understand that I will not justify the actions that I proceeded to take part in. I will merely say that what I did is, to this day, my deepest regret. I still live through the consequences of my actions each and every day.”

John frowned slightly, eyes narrowing as he processed the statement. Shifting in his seat, he nodded once. Mycroft continued.  

“Through an acquaintance, I learned of the rehabilitation center of Dr. Kristoff; an innovative overdose specialist from Germany. At the end of my wits and utterly overwhelmed, I jumped at the opportunity, and enrolled Sherlock in the three month long program. I dropped him off, Doctor Watson, on the steps of the beautiful building and drove away without another glance. Two weeks later, on the day of our first recovery conference, I am met with a docile, polite Sherlock; this alone was enough to raise suspicion. He was painfully thin, and looked utterly defeated in the uniform dressing gown, with dark circles under his eyes and hair unkempt.

When he reached up to rub his dull eyes, I noticed a faint, red mark perfectly circling his wrist. His left wrist bore an identical discoloration. When I questioned him about it, he answered that it was merely irritation from the plastic information tags the patients wore. I left minutes later, ignoring the odd sensation in my stomach.

Two weeks later, I arrived to find a clammy, pale Sherlock, who looked as if he had recently overdosed again. His wrists bore a darker mark, and there was a fain bruise on his cheekbone. He had developed a slight stutter, and was only able to give one word responses. Immediately, I investigated, yet I was unable to locate a single employee. There were at patients listlessly wandering around the corridors, unable to talk when I addressed them. I finally stumbled upon a door whose window gave a glimpse into a dark, padded windowless cell. I was overcome with fear; my worst suspicions were confirmed. The police investigated the center hours later.”

John stood up abruptly, and paced the room with angry strides, fists balled at his side.

“They were torturing the patients, Doctor Watson. This was not a rehabilitation center, it was a reconditioning center. They would inject the recovering drug addicts with their substance of choice periodically, and as they were suffering through the withdrawals, the doctors would restrain them in straitjackets, and lock them in padded cells for hours on end.”

At this, John whirled around, face horribly twisted in rage.

“Who was the fucking bastard who did this, Mycroft,” he spit vehemently. “Who is he, and where can I find him to put a bullet in his brain?”

Mycroft felt a smirk tug at the corner of his lips; a cold, ruthless light in his eyes.

“I have taken care of him, Doctor. He will never see the light of day, and if by some miracle he extracts himself from his current location, he will be utterly broken by human contact.”

John nodded shortly, and turned to stride out the door, still visibly trembling in rage. Right outside the door frame he stopped and said in a low voice,

“I need to know one more thing. Please tell me, Mycroft when did Sherlock relapse?”  

A sad smile crossed Mycroft’s face as he replied quietly,

“I think you already know the answer to that question, Doctor Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Victoria Day Weekend!  
> Updated every week :)


	11. Did you miss me?

 

Mary slumped in the hard-backed kitchen chair, wincing as her feet dug into the hard linoleum flooring and pain shot through her swollen ankles. It had been a long day; winter had thawed into a damp spring, and the smog weighing heavily over London meant ‘Flu season was in full swing. She had worked a long shift, and the only thing on her mind was to ~~crack open a bottle of liquor~~ rest; but John was working late, and would inevitably spend his evening in a grimy pub, losing himself in the bottom of a bottle. It must run his family, Mary thought with a smirk, remembering the drunken call she received late one night from a heavily inebriated Harry. Her husband would arrive home late, key scraping in the lock as his hand shook and stumbling footsteps down the hall. He would stagger into bed, reeking of stale booze and cigarette smoke.

Mary sighed and maneuvered herself to her feet, instinctively wrapping her arms around her swollen belly. There was still a month until the due date, yet each day she seemed to grow heavier. Limping her way over to the fridge, she tugged the handle open, too exhausted to do anything more than heat up leftovers.

“The beef stew is a touch past it’s due date, love.”

Mary didn’t flinch; years of training and experience in the field had all but removed her ability to be startled. She did, however, smoothly reach for the paring knife on the counter beside her and  turn around, surprisingly agile for one so pregnant. Even before she glanced up at the face of the intruder, she knew to whom the soft, lilting Irish tone belonged to.

Jim was seated on the faded fabric of the armchair, amusingly out of place in his spotless Westwood suit and ever-present skull tie. His features, though slightly paler than usual, were twisted in a slight smirk. He stood up, dark eyes gleaming and held out his arms.

“Poppet, come and give daddy a kiss- unless you’ve gone and forgotten me after all this time.”

Mary stood still for a moment, fear and anticipation clenching in her stomach, threatening to overwhelm her. Her limbs unfroze abruptly, knife clattering to the ground, and she stumbled into his open arms as relief washed over her and a smile lit up her face.

“Jim, where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick,” She said, voice muffled by his shoulder.

He laughed, a maniac grin spreading across his own features as he looked down at her.

“I have had a few errands to fun, darling. Please forgive me for my long absence.”

He released her from his embrace, and held her at arms length, examining her closely.

“I must say, love, motherhood is quite becoming on you.”

Mary felt her face tighten, and lowered her gaze, not wanting to upset him with the anger in her eyes. He tilted his head closer to her, searching for the answer to her abrupt change in mood.

“Ah,” he breathed, the soft exclamation that Mary had been dreading.

“Darling, you are rather discontent- ah, don’t give me that look, love, its written all over your face- but you are merely a month away until you are due. The 27th of April, am I correct? Then you will be free of the burden weighing on your every step.”

Mary’s eyes instantly shot up, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She would only have to survive this domestic hell for another month.

Meeting her gaze, Jim threw his head back and laughed a terrifying, mirthless cackle that sent an icy chill down Mary’s spine.

“Oh poppet! Did you really think- I mean- did you actually believe that you would leave?! Oh, no no no love, you’re going to stay here and look after Johnny Boy and your little munchkin. But don’t fret; I need you to run a few sneaky errands of your own in the next little bit.”

The abrupt contrast of emotions made Mary slightly nauseous, and she sunk into the sofa next to the armchair. Jim helped to lower her down, with surprisingly strong hands gripped around her arms as he looked concernedly into her face.

“Have I overwhelmed you, love? I am sorry, I should have been a teensy bit more careful of how much I told you, given your delicate state.”

Mary straightened, clenching her jaw at his kind words. She harshly swallowed the bile rising in her throat, and said shortly,

“I will be fine. It was merely challenging to process such and onslaught of information; please continue.”

Smiling slightly at her harsh tone, Jim relaxed into the armchair, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees in a childish pose as he began speaking in his melodic voice.

“The problem that I am facing, Mary, is that I am bored. I am bored with all of the insipid politicians and businessmen who are always poking their ugly noses in my private matters. I am bored with all the stupid, insignificant people walking around every day whose only purpose is to stay alive. And,” he continued, his voice growing more agitated, “the only person who has presented me with a distraction is Sherlock Holmes, and hE IS THE MOST BORING ONE OF THEM ALL-”

Mary jumped up, adrenaline spiking through her veins and heart pounding as Jim shrieked the last words, face twisted and ugly. It was in these moments when the mask slipped, revealing the madness within that Mary knew she was working with a psychopath.

And just like that, the storm passed, and his expression smoothed into the emotionless, reptilian façade and he said quietly,

“I’m sorry, darling. Daddy loses his temper sometimes, but you mustn’t be scared. He’s not angry with you.”

Mary took a shaky breath and carefully lowered herself back into her seat.

“As I was saying, I need a distraction; a game that Sherlock has played so delightfully in the past. Our Great Game.”

At that, Jim smiled, eyes lighting up.

“What I need you to do, poppet, is to make sure that we don’t have any sneaky people whispering our secrets into the ears of the important people; here, I have a list-“ Jim extracted a folded scrap of paper from the inside of his spotless suit and handed it to her.

“-the names written here are confidential, but I feel rather silly telling you that. Anyways, love, I need you to start taking care of these pesky twits by July.”

Mary blinked, somewhat surprised that Jim would allow her such a long time after the birth of her daughter.

“Jim, I will be perfectly capable to start working by June, and even that is ample time for me to get settled; you must remember, I will have a doctor present in the house at all times.”

Jim mirrored her look of surprise at these last words and said skeptically,

“Do you mean to say that Johnny Boy will leave his precious clinic for that long? Love, even for you, that seems fantastical.”

Mary smirked, the anticipation of the task assigned to her adding brightness to the otherwise dark and dreary future of motherhood.

“I will be ready, Jim. You must remember what I have accomplished while you were away.”

The maniac grin spread once more across his face, and he stood up, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and skipped to the front hall, singing over his shoulder,

“Honey, I cannot wait to get started. Keep an eye out for instructions.”

And with that he flung the door open, leaving Mary with a similar insane smile over her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much readers!  
> Your comments and kudos mean the world to me.  
>  I have taken a month long hiatus to finish my schooling year and exams, but I will be back for weekly updates now.


	12. All Three of You

<Message recorded to the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes 1:07am  4/4/16 >

 _Um, Sherlock. I just wanted to-Jesus, I’m not drunk enough to be making this call. Ok. Pull it together, Watson. Sherlock, I just wanted to apologize for what I said to you before I- well, before things went to shit. I had no right bringing up what happened- what you- when you di- when you were away. I have forgiven you, mate, but it’s still... difficult for me to- Christ, I shouldn't be doing this right now._ [Silence over the line] _Right then. Sherlock, your reasons for using again are your business, but the danger that you put yourself and the people who care for you in is my responsibility. I can't let my best friend ruin his beautiful mind by poisoning himself with God knows what and I definitely can't allow a fucking drug addict in to my life- not now- and-_ [Quiet sob quickly muffled] _God, Sherlock I miss you and your stupid experiments and your sock index and that ridiculous coat you always wore and I need- I- I need you to stop using. And I know how upset with me you are and this is probably the last thing you want to hear but if you won't listen to me can you please just- just do it for my baby girl. She needs to be safe and happy and I know that with a former assassin for a mother and an ex-army doctor with an adrenaline addiction as her father that it's almost too much to ask, but she also needs a family, and you- you insane man, are the closest thing to family I've got. So please- will you do this for her?_ [Lengthy pause]  _One more miracle, Sherlock. That's all I'm asking._

<Text Message Sent to John Watson 3:32am   4/7/16>

**I heard you.**

**SH**

 

*********

Sherlock's fingers twitched fractionally as the rested on his knee, starkly pale against the dark fabric of his Belstaff. He longed for a cigarette, positively ached with the need to feel the smoke curl around his lungs, allowing his brain that moment of satisfaction.

"Steady on, brother mine", a cool voice murmured quietly next to him.

Sherlock tilted his head, lip curling.

"What the hell are you doing here, Mycroft," he snarled in a low tone, refusing to turn to face his ridiculously overdressed sibling.

"Why Sherlock, you couldn't possibly believe that I would miss the birth of John Watson's child. I know what an important day this is for you, dear brother," Mycroft responded delicately, voice coloured with the faintest hint of sarcasm.

Sherlock straightened on the hardened plastic chair, narrowing his eyes under the fluorescent lighting. Hospitals were, with the exception of Barts, sterilized buildings that reeked of disinfectant and sentiment. Places that were to be avoided at all costs; Sherlock hated them passionately, the already stressful situation he was placed in was made worse by the appearance of his detestably nosy brother. Mycroft’s hand fidgeted on the polished handle of his umbrella, and when he spoke again, his voice was impossibly soft.  

"Sherlock, I know this-”

Sherlock jumped up, swallowing harshly around the lump inexplicably rising in his throat.

“You know _nothing_ of what I am feeling, Mycroft,” he spat, frustration and rage reaching a boiling point; words tumbling out of his mouth as his fists clenched.

“You could not possibly fathom what I have felt in the past 36 hours, let alone the past year of my miserable life. You know nothing because you lock yourself away in your secure office on the other side of London, monitoring me in our-my- flat over poorly hidden cameras _really_ Mycroft, that disgustingly low, even for you. You know nothing NOTHING of me because I trained myself at 18 months old to conceal my hateful _sentiment_ from you, you unfeeling machine.”

Mycroft sat frozen, his impeccable posture threatening to snap vertebrae. His mouth was slightly open, eyes wide and unflinchingly cold irises alight with shock. The carefully trained mask had slipped, leaving Sherlock gazing into a face twisted with emotion. He staggered back, the broken façade of his brother wrenching the air from his lungs. Shaking uncontrollably, he stumbled down the hall, blindly making his way down the beige, colourless hall to the room of ~~John~~ the Watson family.

“Sherlock!” came from behind him, his brother’s voice finding its way through the ringing in his ears. He pushed forward, unable to turn around.

Belatedly, Sherlock realized that he did not recall the number of the correct hospital room and stopped abruptly, hands raking through his hair in an effort to remember. Hunched over, he heard light footsteps approaching, and glared at a pair of comfortable trainers and patterned scrubs _second hand, hemmed messily-clearly inexperienced trainers well looked after_ that were edging towards him over the tiled floor.

“Sir”, said a tentative, feminine voice. Raising himself to his full height, he looked down into a youthful face with thin, pale hair scraped back into a ponytail. _first shift, trained poorly but well studied above average ability to retain information owner of 2 -no- 3 cats recently separated from abusive relationship. Boring. S_ he took a step back, clearly frightened from the expression on Sherlock’s face. Towering over her, he managed to arrange his face into a painful smile.

“Good morning-” his eyes flicked to the name tag on her chest “-Emily. I am here to pay a visit to Mary and John Watson. Could you direct me to their room… please?”

The ‘please’ was tacked onto the end as an afterthought, and spoken in a slightly lower register that regularly caused Molly Hooper’s face to increase in redness by 15%.

Straightening brightly, the nurse tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled in what she clearly thought was a seductive manner.

“Absolutely. May I ask who is visiting?”

“Sherlock Holmes”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, if you would follow me”. She walked away from him, hips oscillating in a frankly horrifying manner.

Sherlock thinned his lips in frustration and strode forward, stopping outside of room 246 as the nurse knocked and opened the door, glancing back to smile encouragingly at Sherlock.

He swallowed, fingers clenching and unclenching in his pockets.

In to battle.

Smiling grimly at the thought, he crossed under the low door frame and into the room.   

The scene that greeted him was reminiscent of one of the sickening postcards regularly sent to Mrs. Hudson from her sister. The Watsons lay on the small hospital bed, the room awash in gold from the 5:47am sunrise. Mary’s gown matching the pale blue sheets, and she cradled a small bundle. Her hair was matted, and skin flushed with sweat, but a wide smile resided on her face as she gazed with ~~revolting~~ adoration at the blanketed thing in her arms. Sherlock steadied himself, and looked to John.

It felt as though someone had shot him though the chest at point blank range. Again.

And again.

 _God_ he looked- he looked as though he had never experienced such joy. His rough, lined face was alight with happiness, and he stared down at the small bundle in Mary’s arms as if it held the answers to the universe.

Utterly captivated.

The nurse that apparently had not left the room said something quietly to Sherlock, and he waved her away absentmindedly.

Alerted to the sound of her voice, John looked up with a confused expression on his face until he met Sherlock’s eyes.

The bullets that hit him were poisoned, judging by how much his chest hurt.

The smile that broke over John’s face lit up the room, his eyes a clear blue that Sherlock had not seen in months- no- _years._ His graying hair was golden in the light of the early morning.

“Christ, it took you long enough,” he laughed, voice warm.

“…Sherlock? Are you alright?”

Blinking rapidly, Sherlock struggled to control the emotion crawling up his throat.

“Hello John, Mary. I hope that the labor was a complication-free process.”

John grinned, and said cheerfully,

“Mother and baby are both happy and healthy.”

Mary snorted, saying,

“You’re one to talk about happy- you slept through most of it.”

John looked sheepish, and ducked his head to kiss her.

Sherlock clenched his teeth around the bile threatening to rise. Closing his eyes, he recited the first 16 elements in the periodic table _Hydrogen Helium Lithium Beryllium-_

“Oh Sherlock- do you want to hold her?”

Startled, he opened his eyes to find John climbing out of the bed _neck stiff, shoulder aching from the added weight of Mary leaning on him_ and stretching his arms above his head, jumper riding up to reveal the soft, tan skin of his stomach. Sherlock swallowed hard, looking away as John adjusted his shirt. He leaned over the bed, gently wrapping his arms around the small bundle and bringing it to his chest. He walked slowly over to Sherlock, holding his child as though ~~it~~ she was as fragile as glass.

Sherlock mechanically raised his arms as John approached, fingers trembling slightly. He had never cared for infants- loud, messy and boring- but felt the inexplicable need to protect this small child. Sentiment, he thought bitterly.

A warm, soft weight pressed into his arms, and he had to stop himself from flinching.

“Easy there, Sherlock. She won’t bite”, said a soft voice in close proximity. Blinking, Sherlock glanced down into the face of ~~his~~ the doctor. John had his arms protectively around his daughter as she rested in Sherlock’s grasp.  Their arms were pressed against each other, and warmth was radiating off of Johns body. They were close enough that Sherlock could trace each worry line creasing his friend’s forehead, realizing with a pang that he was most likely the cause. John’s gaze searched his face, the deep azure of his eyes dark with concern.

“Are you alright, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded, clearing his throat and saying quietly,

“Perfectly fine, John.”

A soft smile stole its way across John’s lips and Sherlock felt his heart rate stutter as he realized it was meant for him alone. They stayed like that for a long moment, until John broke his gaze, ears reddening slightly.

“Um- well, we’ve named her Penelope, but she’ll probably go by Penny.”

Sherlock looked down at her for the first time. And blinked. Her eyes were closed, skin slightly red and features wrinkled; not aesthetically pleasing to the eye, but impossibly small. Her fingers gripped the edge of the blanket, minuscule digits barely visible over the soft material. Wisps of dark hair stuck out from her small head, and her nose was upturned slightly at the end.

Fragile.

She fidgeted, hand resting on her cheek as she yawned and opened her eyes.

Sherlock nearly dropped her. John’s eyes appeared to have been copied on her tiny face, the fathomless blue blinking up at him through stubby eyelashes.

A quiet laugh resonated close to his ear, and he looked up, startled. John had the same soft smile on his face as he said,

“I know you aren’t one for children, Sherlock, but I hope you’ll make an exception for this one.”

Sherlock nodded, slightly dazed and felt an odd floating sensation in his stomach.

A cough abruptly sounded from behind them, and John shook himself slightly, removing Penny from Sherlock’s arms. Turning back to Mary, Sherlock watched as he made his way over to her, automatically putting his daughter in her arms. Mary glanced up at the detective, as if daring him to speak.

With measured movements, Sherlock retied his scarf and put his gloves back on, refusing to look at John.

“Wait- you aren’t going yet, are you?”

The army-doctor’s voice was coloured with hurt, and Sherlock had to inhale sharply to keep himself from glancing over.

“I fear I have overstayed my welcome. I offer my congratulations to the both of you once again, and hope that your daughter remains healthy and strong.”

And with that, the detective swept from the room, brusquely striding to the exit.

****

<Message sent to Sherlock Holmes 9:13pm  4/12/16>

**Penelope Scott Watson**

**That’s her full name**

<Message sent to John Watson 4:48am  4/12/16>

**Thank you**

**SH**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers!  
> Thank you for taking the time to read this fic- definitely a slow moving work in progress, but progressing all the same.  
> Who is ready for S4?
> 
> Haha not me


	13. Murders and Museums

27 years ago

Jim gave one final sweep of the rag on the shelf, wood spotless and shining. He had worked hard over the past week, emptying this little corner of their basement, gathering the clutter accumulated over the years into abandoned boxes and restoring the wardrobe to its former glory. Stepping back, he surveyed the tidy antique in satisfaction, then knelt down to pick up the Nike trainers off the grubby floor, carefully arranging them on the middle shelf. Reaching into his breast pocket, he removed a thin strip of cardstock and uncapped the pen, writing ‘Powers’ neatly. He folded the paper in half, balancing it upright against the trainer. Proud of his homemade museum, Jim closed the oak door with a snap and bounced upstairs.

________  

In the end it had been too easy, really. It had been a matter of bribing young Alexander Reed to sneak into Carl’s sports bag and nick his Eczema cream; a condition Jim conversationally pointed out while Carl had his hands wrapped around his throat, earning him a broken nose.

Carl Powers was a well-built, attractive boy with a mess of blond hair and blue eyes that never failed to charm parents and teachers alike. He was the star athlete of their school; the three-time regional champion of the swim team and an avid runner. He was intelligent, quick-witted, and admired by all.

He nearly killed Jim.

Nobody knew, of course, only the select few boys with thick glasses and low self-esteem that Jim confided in.

It had been deemed an accident by the administration board, and was soon swept under the rug. Nobody wanted their star boy to be charged of manslaughter.

The stairwell still gives Jim nightmares.

He wasn’t sure when exactly his plan came to mind; he had been plotting for months, but it finalized after the Broken Plate Incident that sent his mother to E.R. for 13 stitches across her forehead. She told their concerned neighbors she fell and hit her head, which was technically true if the reason she fell was because her husband smacked her and she hit her head on the shard of ceramic he held conveniently close to her face. 

Everything became crystal clear after that.

After the Untidy Room Incident 17 days ago, Jim studied and re-studied his Encyclopedia, copying formulas and smuggling lab equipment from the school’s science department. His father had left for a business trip the following morning, leaving Jim with a fresh bruise across his cheek and the taste of rage in his mouth.

Jim had worked tirelessly, endless evenings fading into early mornings. Under the protection of night, he had perfected his chemical amid sheets of balanced equations and formulas lying haphazardly around his floor. Wearing thick gloves, Jim transferred his concoction to the beaker containing the Eczema cream. With a reinforced glass dropper, he measured out three small doses.

Removing the cap to the tube, he injected the newly lethal antibiotic back into its containment unit and replaced the lid. Alexander Reed slipped the medicated cream back into Carl’s bag the following morning, pockets half a crown heavier.

The obituary left out a few important details, Jim observed as he read the morning paper a week later.

 ________

His father arrived back home the following weekend, suit pressed and eyes dark with anger. He greeted Jim’s mother with a slap across her face, the thin scratch from his ring leaving a trail of blood on her cheek.

Jim noticed it as she placed his plate before him with trembling fingers.

This time, he slipped a drop into his father’s scotch before placing the tumbler in his outstretched hand. It was fascinating to watch the poison take effect; he hadn’t been present to observe his first experiment.  

As his father’s life ebbed away, his cold, icy eyes found Jim and the rage in them made the young boy shrink back as if expecting a strike, but it never came.

Swallowing his distress, Jim straightened and said shakily,

“Farwell, father.”

James Moriarty lunged out of his armchair and promptly collapsed, lying motionless at his son’s feet.

His mother stumbled into the room, crumpling to the floor in horror upon seeing her husband’s body. Her face was a mask of shock, but she was unable to hide the relief in her eyes as she gazed up at Jim.

She nodded once.

Having phoned the police and calmly stated the emergency, Jim carefully removed the skull-dotted tie from his father’s neck and made his way into the basement, placing the knotted silk beside the pair of trainers.

________

Descending the musty stairs nearly 14 years later, Jim Moriarty smoothed his spotless Westwood suit as he strode across the dark basement to the wardrobe. Flinging it open, a smile twisted his lips as he observed his clutter of dusty trophies.

His nameless assistant placed the trainers in a sealed bag as the consulting criminal knotted the dark tie to his throat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you readers!  
> Just a side note: I will continue this fic in and amongst the content of S4- the story continue pre-season :)


End file.
